


Toothless: Return to the Black Pony of Second Chances

by tysonrunningfox



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Horse Girl AU, and he meets a horse who needs him almost as much as he needs it, and they're gonna save the farm from the bank, antagonistic hiccstrid, by winning the big rodeo, cityslicker hiccup, hoping it's a slow burn, no like literally hiccup is a troubled teen sent to live for a summer on the ranch, ranchhand astrid, we'll see if they let me make that decision
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-18 18:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tysonrunningfox/pseuds/tysonrunningfox
Summary: When Hiccup gets expelled from school for a prank gone too far and his mom sends him back to his dad's ranch to straighten him out, he expects it to be the punishment that lasts the summer.  What he doesn't expect is to meet a horse who needs him almost as much as he needs it.





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re familiar with the Sanctuary School’s expulsion policy, aren’t you Mr. Haddock?” Principal Hobblegrunt manages to look halfway austere despite his entirely ridiculous name and I restrain the urge to roll my eyes. They’re pissed this time, they called my mom, and I don’t want her to walk in while the principal is making it rain detention slips. 

For all of its new age-y front of ‘encouraging young minds’, the Sanctuary School is still all about old school punishment when a teacher’s car ends up straddling the benches in the chem lab. 

“I thought you never turned away an open young mind.” 

Principal Hobblegrunt sighs and I can’t help but wonder just when his dreams of educating the masses died and whether it coincides with my first day of school. 

“You have proven, time and time again, Mr. Haddock, that your mind is firmly closed.” 

“That’s not true, I practically memorized the assembly manual to a 2003 Toyota Corolla in a day and a half—”

The door opens and my mom rushes in, looking worried and tired enough to almost make me feel guilty, “sorry, sorry, I got here as soon as I could.” 

An ASPCA flier falls out of her purse. 

Fuck, her protest was today? I’m never going to hear the end of this. I’m going to be buried in a casket filled with nagging reminders that she planned this protest for two months. 

“Mrs. Haddock—”

“Not anymore,” she refuses the principal’s handshake and holds up her ringless left hand—thanks, Mom, always making a stand when it’s best for me— “Valka is fine.” 

“Valka,” Principal Hobblegrunt wipes his palm on his slacks and sits down, “I’m sorry to call you in with such short notice, but we have to discuss your son’s behavior.” 

“Is that before or after we discuss my son’s timing?” She taps the face of her fully recycled plastic watch to remind me that she’s supposed to be in front of a slaughterhouse across the river right now, “what is it this time?” 

“Mrs—Valka,” the principal sighs again, heavier, like I broke his spirit when I was aiming for Ms. Wing’s, “I have to believe that your cavalier attitude is the root of this problem, because after multiple stages of discipline, your son seems to still be…entirely rejecting the notion of learning to cooperate with anyone.” 

“What is it this time?” Mom asks again, voice lowered to something resembling pissed off and I squirm in my chair. 

It takes a lot to get my mom pissed, and when it happens it’s quite the spectacle. Her voice can reach octaves that make the air force start complaining about interrupted radar transmissions. 

“Your son…stole his teacher’s car—”

“What?” Mom turns to me, eyes killing curse green, and I shrug, because I’ve already lost this battle and I have to save energy for the imminent war. 

“I gave it right back.”

“He placed it in the chemistry lab.” Principal Hobblegrunt looks too satisfied at how pissed my mother is and I can’t help but wonder how heavy his Prius is and the weight bearing capacity of the roof, but then he keeps talking. “And as this is his third infraction this semester, we’re forced to look at more serious punishment—”

“You can’t even prove it was me!” I interrupt before he says ‘suspension’. 

Principal Hobblegrunt grins like he’s been waiting for this, like he’s a hippie educator turned Disney villain just waiting for me to stumble into his genius trap, “after the pig incident in the kitchen,” he turns his computer screen to face us and plays a video of me handing the night guard what I know to be 40 bucks and an unlocked iPhone, before he opens the door for me, “we were instructed by our insurance company to install cameras.” He fastforwards. I roll through with Ms. Wing’s shitty Toyota’s front axel on a dolly and fuck. 

“The pig incident?” My mom asks through gritted teeth, eyes locked on the screen. 

She hasn’t eaten meat in thirty years but I wouldn’t be surprised if she enjoys skinning my hide. 

“You weren’t notified? We called and talked to you—”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Mom scoots her chair forward and rests her elbows on the edge of the desk, like she’s getting comfortable for a long chat, “I think we have a lot to talk about.” 

“Mom!” I call after her, out of breath from the impossible pace she set the entire trip home, where she almost peeled me off on closing subway doors not once, not twice, but four times. My knee throbs as I force myself to jog up the last two flights of stairs, barely catching up to her as she unlocks the door. “Mom. Come on, talk to me—”

“You let a pig loose in the school kitchen?” She shoves the door open, throwing her purse on the table and stalking to the kitchen. “What possessed you to do a thing like that?” 

I swallow hard, “the salad bar wasn’t Kosher.” 

“You’re not Jewish.” 

“It was the principle of the thing.” 

She laughs, but it’s a scary laugh, a dangerous laugh, a laugh that means she went to Disney Villain Academy with Principal Hobblegrunt and never told me. 

“Let me guess, Heather pretended to be me on the phone.” 

“I just didn’t want to stress you out—”

“You stole your teacher’s car and put it in the chem lab—”

“I still think that should only be one infraction, it’s not fair to count it as two—”

“You got expelled from the most liberal, accepting school in New York.” She bangs open a drawer and grabs her corkscrew, opening one of the bottles of cheap red on the counter and taking a gulp right out of the bottle. 

“Uh yeah, I did that.” I scratch the back of my head, “at least it’s almost summer? At least they’re letting me have credit for the semester?” 

“You mean at least you’re only inconveniencing me.” She sets the bottle down and gets a glass from the cupboard. “How am I going to tell your father? You know he thinks I can’t handle you by myself. Maybe he’s right.” She snorts, “maybe he was always right.” 

“Mom, no, you don’t have to handle me, I’m not—” I step up to the counter and pour her a glass of wine, because I’m suddenly seized with the urge to help even though it’s impossible because I—she never talks about Dad and when she does, it’s never about how right he was. 

My leg hurts from the fast walk home and I try to lean my weight off of it without her noticing. “Here.” I hand her the glass, spilling some on the counter, “and I’ll clean that up. I’ll—I’ll clean. And I’ll make breakfast.” 

“Hiccup,” she sits down on one of the stools at the bar, head in her hand, wiping a drip of wine up with a flyer from the protest that didn’t happen, “you know it’s not that easy this time.” 

“You don’t have to tell Dad.” 

“Go to your room,” her voice is anything but forceful, like being furious for a couple of hours sapped all her energy.

“But—”

“Hiccup,” she closes her eyes, “go to your room. Sit in the quiet. Try to feel guilty.” 

“Fine.” I hear my own voice like I’m under two feet of water.

I shut my bedroom door before flopping on the bed, rubbing behind my knee and staring at the wall like it looks different than it did that morning. Maybe it does. The knob from Ms. Wing’s Toyota’s stick shift is staring back at me and I lean forward to pick it up, weighing it in my hands. 

There’s a creak on the fire escape outside and a knock at my window and I turn to face it with a finger held up to my lips. Heather freezes, eyebrows raised, fingers hooked under the lip of the window. I roll off the bed to go open it, limping more than I anticipated and wincing when the frame squeaks. 

“Be quiet,” I tell her again as she climbs in, sitting on my bookcase as I lower the window closed behind her. “Like, whisper quiet.” 

“That bad, huh?” She doesn’t sound as cavalier as normal and I shrug one shoulder, focusing on the line of rings through her ear instead of her face. “You look like a dead man walking.” 

“The walking’s a no go, really,” I hop back to the bed and perch on the edge of it, rubbing behind my knee, “but the dead thing is pretty close.” 

“How bad is it? What’d Hobblegrunt do this time? He’s a complete fascist, you know, and Ms. Wing is worse—”

“I’m expelled.” I laugh, a wheezy, under my breath sound, “I hadn’t said it yet. It sounds crazy.” 

“Expelled!” She says at full volume, looking chagrined when I shush her. “That’s not fair—”

“I stole a teacher’s car—”

“They can’t prove it was you,” she drops off of the bookshelf, cat-like and almost silent as she sits on the bed next to me, arms and legs crossed so tightly they’re almost knotted. The tiger tattoo on her thigh is staring at me and I look back at the stick shift knob.

“They have it on video, they installed cameras after the pig.” I hand the knob to her, “plus, I took a trophy, like an idiot.” 

She throws it up and catches it, holding onto it with a grip so tight her fingers go pale, “fascists.”

“Calling everyone a fascist cheapens the insult.” 

This conversation is the only thing that’s felt normal since they came and pulled me out of sixth period and I lay back on the bed, staring at the suction cup darts still stuck to the ceiling. Heather was better at that than me, all my darts just fell back down onto my face. One hit me in the eye and instead of telling my mom the truth, we made up some elaborate story about how I fought someone for trying to kill a spider instead of putting it outside. 

“It’s not an insult, it’s a noun used to refer to fascists.” 

I sigh, “she’s calling my dad.” 

“What’s he going to do? Isn’t he out in one of the Dakotas or something?” 

“Wyoming.” 

“Yeah, that’s just as obscure and far away. What’s he going to do?” She lays back beside me, the bed squeaking with the force of it and I don’t think Heather’s capable of being quiet when it’s not for sport. “What’s anyone going to do? You’re already expelled, I think you’re sort of impossible to punish at this point.” She snorts, “it’s the freedom you’ve always dreamed of.” 

“I’m being serious, Heather, I—Mom started saying Dad was right. About her not being able to handle me by herself. She’s drinking the cooking wine.” 

“We should go get your mom something stronger.” Heather wrinkles her nose, turning onto her side to face me. 

I used to wonder why she still talked to me, you know, after the puberty stick sorted her into the smoking hot, alternative chic line and stuck me in gangly, one-legged stasis, but at some point I realized it’s because I give her this window into a semi-normal world. She’s an anthropologist who got too invested in the tribe they were studying and could no longer be biased. 

“Getting my mom drunk isn’t going to stop my dad from killing me.” 

“It might postpone it,” she props herself up on her elbow, her shirt riding up over her hip, “you know drunk Valka doesn’t get anything done.” 

The stupid, hopeless romantic part of me that had a crush on Astrid Hofferson after she pulled my hair in first grade always kind of assumed that Heather and I were an eventuality. She’s beautiful, she climbs in my window and forces impromptu sleepovers onto me when her brother’s being more insane than usual. But hopeless romanticism got my parents to the great terms they’re on, so I’m better off with cynical self-repression and the honest truth that Heather is and always has been too much for me. 

I’d need two feet and to scrub the sarcasm off my death wish to even entertain the idea. 

“Or drunk Valka could just call him. She’d probably start ranting about some crisis again and never get around to telling him I got expelled.” 

“I’ll go grab my brother’s gin.” She waggles her eyebrows and stands, reaching for the window before I hook my heel across her shin. “What?”

“Don’t,” I shrug, “she’s already on the phone.” 

She smiles a pinched smile, like she’s trying to pretend to pretend this isn’t a big deal, “remember when he came to visit?” She lays back down next to him, hands folded on her stomach, “what did he call me again? Ruffian?” 

“A strange child with insane hair appeared at breakfast and started eating his toast, what was he supposed to call you?” 

“I introduced myself.” 

“As my cursed Furby come to life,” I laugh, closing my eyes and listening for the tell tale sounds of a telephone argument. 

I don’t hear any. Either she went outside to yell at him or they’re just talking. And talking is more dangerous than yelling ever was. 

I remember the night Mom and I left and how quiet it was compared to the weeks before it. Just…eerily so. Like the vacuum of space had expanded into the farmhouse and sapped all the air out of it. 

Heather yawns. One of the darts on the ceiling gives up, plinking harmlessly onto the top of my dresser. 

“Rise and Shine,” Mom opens my door and wakes me up with a hollow smile on her face and dark circles under her eyes. “Good morning, Heather, aren’t you going to be late for school? Or did you get expelled too?”

“’M not going,” Heather rolls over onto her front and pulls my pillow over the back of her head, “it’s a protest.” She says, voice muffled. 

“What a sacrifice for you,” I press the pillow down on her head and she blindly waves me away. 

“Hiccup,” my mom sighs, “come out here, I need to talk to you in private.” 

“Turn the light off,” Heather says as I shut the door, following my mom to the kitchen counter.

Her laptop is there. Next to a freshly printed piece of paper that looks a lot like a boarding pass. 

“Going on a trip?” I frown, “I’ll lock Heather out if you really want me to stew alone in my own self-loathing.” 

“Hiccup,” she reaches out and touches my cheek, like she never does, like no sane person ever does. “Your father and I had a good talk last night.” 

“Are you going to go visit Dad?” I cock my head and she sighs. 

“He thinks—and he convinced me, that—I decided that it would be good for you to spend some time with him. Something isn’t working for you here, maybe you need—”

“What?” It takes a moment for that to sink in, because it’s not really English, it’s not really a sentence my mother would ever say. 

“It’s decided.” She sets her jaw, like this is hard for her and good. It should be. “Your flight leaves tonight, I’ll help you pack and then ship the rest of your things to you—”

“What?” I bat her hand away from my face. “So you aren’t saying like a couple of weeks or a visit, you’re—you’re sending me to live with him? In Wyoming?” 

“Hiccup, we don’t know what else to do with you.” 

“Nothing.” I shake my head, stumbling backwards on a leg that came half undone while I was sleeping, “you don’t have to do anything with me. I’ll sit in the corner and be silent. I’ll go to public school down the street, you can’t—you can’t send me to Wyoming, Mom, you—”

“I’ve done the best I could, and I thought I was encouraging you, but I think—you need your father. You need structure. You need—”

“I don’t need him, there’s structure here, you sent me to my room last night!” 

“It’s decided, Hiccup.”

“You don’t get to just decide things for me. I’m a human being, you—you give more free will to farm animals than you’re giving me!” It’s a low blow and it’s too far but I—

She’s sending me to Wyoming. 

Any blow I throw that can stop it is worth it, right? 

“Yes, and they don’t steal cars.” She points towards my room. “Pack. And remember, you’ll need your jacket.”

“How did your mom become part of the establishment?” Heather badly folds a shirt and throws it into the suitcase. It’s the only thing even partially folded, because I’d done exactly nothing until my mom came in to check on me and I dumped two drawers into the bag to keep her from starting in again with that ‘it’s what’s best for you’ speech. “She used to be so cool. Ugh,” she looks at me like she just had some horrible, life-altering realization, “they’re going to expect you to wear plaid. You’re going to get kicked out of Wyoming for looking like a lesbian—”

“Not helping.” 

“Why are you being so quiet about this?” She throws a show into the suitcase and it bounces out onto the bed. “You’re not fighting it at all!” 

“What do you want me to do? Barricade the door? Go steal Ms. Wing’s car again and live in it?” My voice cracks like I’m thirteen again and I clear my throat, “I don’t know what you want me to do.” 

“Be Hiccup.” She says it like it’s obvious, brushing imaginary dirt off of my shoulders. 

“That’s what got me into this mess.” 

“I’ll blackmail Hobblegrunt, there’s gotta be some dirt hidden in that decades’ old ponytail—”

“No!” I start throwing handfuls of underwear into the bag, “I—don’t. There’s…I hurt her, ok? I hurt my mom and if she thinks this will make her feel better, then I should do it.”

“What about you though? You’re going to be in Wyoming, you realize that? Do cell phones even work there?” She laughs, “what about me? What am I going to do?” 

“You’re going to keep my mom company. She needs someone to make awful pancakes for.” 

“We’re out of places to hide them.” 

“The potted plant in the corner was my next target.” I sigh, “look, I…”

Maybe I deserve it. 

I’m not saying that out loud, especially to Heather, because she’ll crucify me for it but…maybe I was shitty for long enough that the universe realized I’d forgotten the big old leg warning. That’s probably the deep sense of forboding talking, and I’ll start kicking and screaming on the plane until an Air Marshal takes me out, but…I’m out of fight right now.

“You should wear makeup,” Heather snorts, “freak your dad out. I’ll do your guy-liner.” 

“I don’t want rom com cry lines down my face when someone makes me pick up cow poop.” 

Heather wrinkles her nose, “you want Dagur’s box of rubber gloves?” 

“I didn’t want to know that he had that.” 

“He’s going to miss you,” she looks at her feet, tucks her hair behind her ear, “I’m going to miss you. You better find a way to make your phone work.” 

“That’ll be my first priority. I don’t think the internet has made it out there yet, flimsy data will be all I have.”

“You’re going to die.” She ruffles his hair, “do you need to bring ass-less chaps or anything? Because I’d help you pick those out.” 

“All chaps are assless,” I half-heartedly try to fix my hair, looking around the room to make sure I don’t forget anything important, “here,” I hand her the knob from Ms. Wing’s stick shift, “something to remember me by.” 

She hugs me in a completely un-Heather, consumerist display of affection and my mom yells through the door that I have an hour before I have to leave. 

There are no big airports in Wyoming, because no one wants to go there, so I have to fly into Denver. And my plane gets in at ass o’clock in the morning and everything valuable I own is in my backpack as I walk to baggage claim, half exhausted and have deflated. The thing about airports in the early morning is that nothing seems real, and I let myself drink shitty, lukewarm airplane coffee and pretend nothing is. 

“Hiccup?” 

I recognize my dad’s voice as soon as I hear it, booming and unselfconscious, and I want to shrink down so he un-notices me, but then I’m stuck in the airport forever and I’ve only got twenty dollars on me which means like…one meal to last the rest of my existence.

“Yeah,” I turn around, almost dropping my coffee when he hugs me, then seems to immediately rethink it, stepping back and clapping me on the shoulder. 

He’s bigger than I remember and his ten gallon hat looks like eleven gallons in this lighting. There’s a streak of gray through his beard that wasn’t there when he came out to New York for Christmas two years ago. 

“Good to see you, son,” he looks me up and down, “you’ve grown.” His smile fades, “and you got kicked out of that school your mother worked so hard to get you into, what do you have to say for yourself?” 

I glance at my wrist like I’m looking for a watch, “damn, I should have been timing that. Either way, way quicker than I expected. I think you just broke some kind of record.” 

“Son—”

“I don’t even have my bag yet,” I stare at the shitty coffee in the shitty Styrofoam cup, “we have the whole two-hour drive for you to lecture me.” 

“It’s not a lecture,” he puts his hand on his chin above the beard. And dear lord, the beard. And the hat. And the belt buckle the size of my fist. I feel like I’m being profiled as someone who associates with cowboys. “Your mother agreed to this arrangement. We agree that it’s the best thing for you right now, New York—”

“Yeah, the entire city of New York conspired to mess up my deeply established Midwestern values. Right.”

“This isn’t a time for sarcasm.” 

“Oh, but you see, Dad, sarcasm is all of my big city ways that I can carry with me.” My bag comes around the carousel and I fight with it for a moment before getting it over the lip. He takes it from me like it weighs nothing. 

He looks tired, like Mom does when rent’s tight, but it looks like a weakness to exploit instead of something to try and fix. 

“No upper body strength,” I add, flexing, and his beard twitches like he’s flexing his jaw behind it.

“We’ll fix that.” 

“It’s not broken,” I huff, checking my phone. 

There’s one text from Heather. 

Heather (5:21am): give ‘em hell, pig. that’s from babe, right?

I snort. My dad’s looking at me like I’m some kind of alien and I put my phone back in my pocket. I should have taken the guy-liner offer, that would have gone over so well. 

“Let’s go then,” he gestures towards the door and I think for a crazy moment about staying. Hitchhiking onto the next plane back to New York and hiding in Heather’s apartment for a bit if I survive the low pressure in the cargo bay. 

“I assume you drove the pickup down,” I follow him to the door, “no thoughts to the environment, or fuel efficiency. I could totally build you a Toyota from parts if we go to the dump.”


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Haddock leaves at the crack of dawn to pick up Hiccup in Denver, so I start out milking the goats. The goats are new, just like a third of the horses and well…me. It’s all new, it’s just less new than a two-bedroom apartment in Laramie, surrounded by smog and people and lights 24/7.

The goats are from the Thorston ranch, which closed last month. The horses are mostly from the Hofferson ranch. 

It’s like my father’s worst nightmare, the Haddock ranch expanding to claim us all, except the Haddock ranch is cramped too, like everything that used to be here is all shoved onto its land. 

The goats don’t like me. I don’t much like them either and maybe they can sense that, because the oldest nanny goat bites me before I can get near her and I give up, huffing at the gate and slamming it shut behind me. There’s a reason the Thorstons couldn’t hack it. Goats and chickens and pigs? That’s not where the money is here, it’s all cows and established horse ranches. 

I milk the cows next. It’s only two, dairy heifers weren’t the Haddock’s thing until the Ingermans’ left the game when their son went to college last year. I think it’s part of the farm’s problem, honestly, even though it’s not my place to say it. It’s built to be a horse farm but it’s taken in everything around it, and now its once rock solid footing feels shifty. 

Or maybe it feels shifty because I’m the only ranch hand who could be assed to wake up before nine. 

When I make it back to the bunkhouse, Ruffnut’s barely awake, listlessly eating a bowl of cereal by the mini-fridge in the half-kitchen. Dinner is steak, most of the time, because Mr. Haddock has more cattle than he can provide for since the Jorgenson ranch sold and more ranch hands than he can pay in cash, but breakfast is a free for all with five of us and two boxes of lucky charms, until someone else makes the trek into town, at least.

“Snotlout didn’t come home last night,” Ruffnut grumbles in greeting and I step around her to wash my already filthy hands. 

“Does this mark the end of your disastrous attempts of flirting with him?” 

“If he’s not here I don’t have anyone to bury with the backhoe.” 

“You know, you could use it to do your job.” I wipe my hands on the kitchen towel on the counter, “where do you think he was?” 

She shrugs, “where else? He spent all day getting his work boots all shiny, he probably went to the bar, they were having that ten dollar a cup kegger.” 

I roll my eyes, “literally everyone at that bar knows him, no one would let him in.” 

“I guess this time they did.” Ruffnut tosses her bowl of cereal in the sink like she didn’t go through the effort of milking the cows to get the milk, which she didn’t. “You think there’d be more boys around here. I mean, there’s a large number of boys, but none of them are boys.”

“Mr. Haddock is picking his son up today,” I grab a handful of dry cereal and eat a few pieces, “maybe that’ll fill your dude-pool.” 

Ruffnut grins in that malicious way she does at Snotlout, “nah, Astrid, I wouldn’t do that to you, we all know Hiccup’s yours.” 

“What are you talking about?” I swallow half chewed cereal too fast and it sticks in my throat making me cough. 

“See? You’re getting all flustered about it even now. Ha.” Ruffnut starts braiding half her hair, pulling the plait over her shoulder, “remember when you got detention in second grade for pulling his hair? You had the biggest school yard bully crush on him.” 

“You know, if you actually got your ass out of bed in the morning, you’d have time to catch up on Days of our Lives and you could stop finding drama where there is none.” 

“What’s the fun in that?” She ties off her first long braid and starts on the second. “Plus, why are you always up my ass about getting up? You aren’t upstairs nagging Tuff and Fish right now.” 

“I’m too busy to go upstairs and nag them, you’re just convenient.”

“Too busy distracting yourself from the impending arrival of your long lost second grade crush?” 

“Too busy doing five people’s jobs,” I scoff, looking outside at the mid-morning sun and grabbing my hat from the rack, “I’m going to go work Stormfly and check the cows, could you deal with your stupid goats?” 

“Rita bite you again?” Ruffnut snorts, “wily old duchess.” 

I shake my head and shove her shoulder, and it’s affectionate because she’s my best friend, but it’s also the closest I can get to slugging her in the moment, “I’ll be back.” 

“I’ll check out Hiccup for you. He hasn’t posted anything on facebook in a while, it’s all his mom tagging him in like, protest events at slaughterhouses, but a couple years ago he was looking tall.”

“It’s like you’re speaking in code.” 

“It’s like I leave the ranch occasionally,” Ruffnut launches her hair tie at me and hits me in the shoulder on my way out the door, “have fun with your cows.” 

Ok, so I know that Ruffnut’s entire thing is to be as flustering as possible. That’s how she gets through life, that’s how she gets through all hands meetings with Mr. Haddock after getting nothing done. That’s how she got that guy from the bank that wasn’t Eret to go away last time, by asking him if he knew anything about some mythical sex offender list she’d seen. 

But now, behind the million trains of thought keeping the ranch going while Mr. Haddock is gone, I’m running some decade old introspection about Hiccup. I don’t remember him much, honestly, I remember that his mom didn’t eat meat and always brought these weird, vegetarian side dishes to the Sunday lunch in town after church. I remember he was little and loud and weird and that his parents were the first people I ever knew who got divorced. 

I pulled his hair because…I don’t even remember. Who remembers their motivations from when they were seven? The only thing I remember from when I was seven was hating waking up early before school to go out to the barn. That was before my uncle sat me down and explained how important it was, how ranching isn’t an eight to five city job, it’s an all the time commitment to your animals and your land and your family. 

Ruffnut’s crazy and just trying to avoid work, like always. 

I don’t bother saddling Stormfly up, because it’s late anyway after getting all the morning chores done myself and I don’t want Mr. Haddock to come back to a disaster. The cows are in the east pasture and it’s a short ride on the trail behind the barn until I can circle the herd and make sure nothing happened during the night. Mr. Haddock says it’s not something I need to do every day, and I know cows aren’t horses and all the fences here are sound, but after this spring I don’t trust them, and it’s not like checking is causing any extra work for anyone else. 

The cows don’t like Stormfly because she likes them too much, head dropping slightly for balance as she readies to whirl on her haunches at my signal and pluck a steer from the herd, but I tug her head up holding her wide around the herd with my inside heel and checking the fence I can see. I can’t count all of them, but there hasn’t been any mass overnight exodus, and it doesn’t look like they brought back any unwanted stragglers, so I turn back towards the ranch. 

When Stormfly walks around the corner of the barn, she perks up, ears twitching towards each other as Mr. Haddock’s truck pulls up the long, gravel driveway, stopping in front of the house. The kid I presume to be Hiccup is sitting in the front seat, sweatshirt hood pulled up, headphones hanging around his neck like Mr. Haddock made him take them off at some point. Which, good, because that’s incredibly rude and maybe I was fully justified in pulling his hair. 

I wouldn’t even remember it if I hadn’t gotten in trouble for it. Honestly, until Ruffnut mentioned it, I’d forgotten why I got that singular, stupid detention. 

I halt Stormfly in front of the barn and swing off, scratching her withers where they’re slightly damp from her excitement over the cows. She tugs at my grip on the reins, pulling to greet Mr. Haddock, who despite his big boss status, always has a peppermint or two to spare for her. 

“Whoa girl, not now,” I adjust the bridle over her ears and glance at Hiccup Haddock getting out of the truck before committing to putting Stormfly away. There’s no time for curiosity, I have enough to get done, I’m sure I’ll see him at dinner. “Let’s go inside, we’ll go out again after dinner, alright?” 

She nickers, giving one last half-hearted tug towards Mr. Haddock before following. 

I don’t get two steps before Mr. Haddock calls my name, “Astrid! Come say hi to Hiccup, I bet you two won’t even recognize each other!”

Stormfly exhales, warm and victorious against my elbow, and I turn on my heel, forcing a smile and walking across the driveway. I can’t really see Hiccup until I’m almost right in front of Mr. Haddock, because he’s hiding against the other side of the truck, barely peeking over the hood at me. I’d say he was scared if everything about his expression weren’t petulant and bratty, like he has to use every ounce of energy to communicate that he doesn’t want to be here. 

He is tall. Tall and gangly like he’s never had a day’s hard work in his life and pale like he doesn’t spend much time in the sun. He looks like his mother and I didn’t realize I remembered what his mother looked like until he looks me up and down like he’s sizing me up. 

Stormfly lips the edge of Mr. Haddock’s pocket and I tug on her reins. 

“He doesn’t have anything for you.” 

“She knows me better than that, Astrid,” Mr. Haddock pulls a peppermint from his pocket, elbow holding Stormfly’s face back as he unwraps it. “Here you go,” he pats her forehead, scratching the furl of hair in her blaze, “Hiccup, come over here, say hello.” 

“Do I have to?” he tosses his head, like the sullen, unrelatable teenager in every holiday movie I’ve ever been forced to sit through and my fake smile falters. No one talks to Mr. Haddock like that. No one. 

“It would be polite,” Mr. Haddock says through his teeth, like he’s restraining himself and Stormfly nudges him again, dragging her soft lip over his hand. 

“Then I’m going inside,” Hiccup turns on his heel, adjusting his backpack strap on his shoulder. 

“Yes, you have to.” Mr. Haddock amends, voice harsh, like sandpaper, like he’s going to wear Hiccup down through sheer force of will.

“Fine,” Hiccup sulks around the front of the truck, gait bouncy like he’s enjoying being a brat. He’s taller than me, and absolutely insubstantial, the reedy muscles and tendons sticking out from the back of a smooth skinned hand, “Hiccup Haddock, Democrat.” 

I shake his hand, because I have manners, “Astrid Hofferson and that’s really rude.” 

“I guessed, from the way my dad kept calling you Astrid. Not exactly common.” He shrugs, dropping my hand and wiping his own on his baggy, torn jeans. They’re the kind that you buy torn, the kind that fake being worn in for people who sit inside all day but still want the look of someone who does something. “And I don’t think it’s rude to bring our flawed political process to the forefront, especially because I get to hang out with all you lovely red necks with more important votes than mine.” 

“You’re seventeen.” I grit my teeth and hear Mr. Haddock step forward, like he’s scared I’m about to punch the kid. I’m not going to, because I’m not seven anymore and I know that disorder is never going to fix anything, but I also feel completely vindicated for my younger self’s actions. 

“It’s never too early to get involved.” He smirks, a stupid, superficial smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes and he looks like Snotlout in math class, so sure he’s never going to need it once his bull riding career inevitably kicks off. 

“Is it too early to stop saying stuff just to offend people?” I wipe my own palm on my filthy jeans, because I’m not a saint either, and he narrows his eyes slightly. 

“Sorry, my subscription to Offending Wyoming Monthly doesn’t expire until October. It was a Halloween present,” he looks around, shoulders twitching in a fake little flinch, “didn’t realize I’d ever have use for something that scary.” 

“Can I get back to work, Mr. Haddock?” I step back by Stormfly’s shoulder before I hear an answer, tossing the reins over her head vaulting onto her with an easy hop that feels more public than normal. Hiccup is staring at me, an unnerving, piercing green stare, like he’s not sure about something, and I try not to feel vindicated. 

Because he’s not sure about anything and a single day on the ranch will buff all that bright city clean off of him and we’ll see who’s laughing then. 

“Sure, Astrid. Check that damned mustang, would you?” 

“Yeah,” I shrug, “he wouldn’t let me close to him yesterday, but, yeah, I can check.” 

“Lucky him,” Hiccup mutters under his breath and Mr. Haddock pretends not to hear. I set my chin, because I’m capable and because I need Mr. Haddock to convince my parents that I’m mature and hardworking enough to stay right here through the school year. 

Punching Hiccup Haddock will not get me any good reference from Mr. Haddock. 

At least not yet. Maybe after dealing with him for a couple weeks. 

“Thanks, Astrid.” Mr. Haddock looks tired and I nudge Stormfly with my heel, turning her towards the back paddock where the Hofferson livelihood is staying, mostly ungroomed and less trained every day I’m stuck wrestling with goats. 

It’s not how it used to be around here. Yes, everything looks the same, the hills will edge grassy shadows against the sunset until time itself ends, but the age of the family farm is ending. It’s all about profit now, about efficiency. Everyone wants their ranch close, like we can cram a world class horse operation into a vacant lot behind the local Walmart. Everyone wants the land for even cheaper food, for corn that doesn’t taste like corn and grows even when the snow’s two foot thick and unmovable. 

But they can’t get all of us, and the ones left are toughest. 

The Hofferson Ranch would still be thriving if it weren’t for the fence failing and the bullshit lawsuit that followed. But instead we’re absorbed, and my parents gave up and left me with the Haddock’s back paddock and all that’s left after auction. 

The little black mustang is hiding at the back of the herd, like he was yesterday, leaning on the corner post of the fence, flanks sweaty with infection and back leg cocked away from his weight. His eyes are glassy and mean and I can’t help but pity him, even though he’s looking murderously at Stormfly and I, like he’d love to sink his teeth into us like he did to the auctioneers when they shoved him on stage along with the other stragglers in the Hofferson herd. 

He doesn’t look good. He looks like a lost investment, like that colt my father was suckered into buying from out of state. Good sire, lame dam, skinny legged and clumsy in the way a good cutting horse can’t be. 

“Can I check your leg?” I say, clear but calm, the way I talk to Stormfly during a storm, “it’s not going to get better if you don’t let anyone see it.” 

His ears go back, flat against his sweaty neck as he presses his haunches against the fence, guarding his injured leg from me. 

“I could give you something to make you feel better,” I offer again, and I don’t sound as nice as I should, “even though there’s probably one of my family’s horses that would take it from me gratefully.” 

Stormfly nickers at him, like she’s apologizing from my tone. He stomps his front foot and stumbles, jerking back to his feet with a high-pitched shriek of pain, fear, and dominance. 

He’s loud in a way horses aren’t supposed to be and something about the way he moves, defensive and uneven, makes me uneasy. Everything about all of this makes me uneasy and suddenly I want nothing more than the ranch house that isn’t there anymore. 

By the time I get back up to the house, everyone is fully awake and reacting to Hiccup’s arrival, all massed around the front door on the covered porch. Snotlout found his way back at some point, and he’s standing with Tuffnut, arms crossed and boots still absurdly shiny as I ride around the corner and swing off of Stormfly, wrapping her reins loosely around my fist.

“You don’t look happy to see your cousin, Snot,” I lean against the railing between where he and Tuffnut are sitting and Tuffnut leans back to scratch Stormfly’s forehead. The chicken on his lap squawks indignantly, like he’s not supposed to pay attention to anything else. 

“Mr. Haddock caught him sneaking back in,” Ruffnut gloats, taking the pop out of Fishlegs’s hand and finishing it before he can protest, “he’s on coop scooping duty for a week.”

“I know, Chicken, he won’t disturb your home, I swear,” Tuffnut shushes the bird, stroking its back.

“If you’d taken classes at the community college like me, you could be at U-dub by now,” Fishlegs gloats, because even though he graduated after sophomore year and went to college, he somehow forgot most of the words he knew and is now doomed to repeat the same dozen for all eternity. 

“Yeah and miss getting recruited to PBR straight out of high school just for some lame parties?” Snotlout snorts, pushing off of the railing, “I’m going to go scoop the stupid chicken shit. See you guys later.” 

“He’s so bitter, this is great,” Ruffnut snorts, taking the half a candy bar that Fishlegs just pulled out of his pocket. He opens his mouth to argue and she glares at him, “do you want me to be hungry, Fishy?”

He huffs, “at school—”

“Everything is a beautiful utopia,” Tuffnut rolls his eyes, “we know, we get it.” 

“And it rains candy and bacon twice a week,” Ruffnut adds. Her brother high fives her and it’s just silent enough for me to hear a blip of the conversation inside. The yelling conversation. 

“Is he arguing with Mr. Haddock?” 

“He has been since he got here,” Fishlegs whispers, like he’s happy to be on the right side of the gossip for the first time this summer. Stormfly nuzzles at Tuffnut’s back pocket, where he keeps a handful of cracked corn for Chicken, and I tug her back slightly. 

“He’s tall and he has balls,” Ruffnut winks at me, “I’ve never heard anyone yell at Mr. Haddock. That’s like yelling at a mountain and expecting it to get out of the way.” 

“It’s really disrespectful,” I scoff, because I don’t know when disrespectful became cool or ok. 

“I think it’s kind of badass,” Tuffnut nods appreciatively, “the twerp can draw some of the fire and maybe the rest of us could do something actually cool this summer.” 

“That’s his father though,” I shrug and it feels huffier than I want it to, “he shouldn’t talk to his father like that.” 

“Right, like I didn’t hear you on the phone last week with your parents calling them cowards.” Ruffnut rolls her eyes and I flush.

She promised she wouldn’t tell anyone about that. 

“My parents aren’t Mr. Haddock.” 

“I learned in my two hundred level sociology class that it’s natural for teenagers to rebel and disrespect their parents. It’s part of growing to form distinct personal and social spheres within the family structure,” Fishlegs says with an obvious air of diffusing the situation.

“I’m never going to college,” Tuffnut laughs, “sounds like paying a bunch of old people in tweed to tell me obvious stuff but with bigger words.” 

“I don’t think that’s why you’re never going to college,” Fishlegs turns up his nose, “I think it’ll have something to do with not getting in—”

The door flings open and Hiccup stomps out, red-faced with his hands in his pockets, and Mr. Haddock follows, angrier than I think I’ve ever seen him. When he spots us crowded around the doorway he straightens up, forcing his face placid and exhaling. 

“Son.” 

“If you think calling me ‘son’ is going to convince me of some archaic, back-ass-wards hierarchy—”

“Language!” Mr. Haddock booms, the kind of volume that would start a stampede if he felt like it.

Hiccup’s face goes pale and he narrows his eyes, “fine, some backwards, Midwestern, child-labor-law-ignoring hierarchy—”

“Hiccup,” Mr. Haddock looks at me, like somehow I’m implicated in this whole disaster, “why don’t you…why don’t you go into town with Astrid. We need a few things. The list is on the fridge,” he reaches into his pocket and hands me a wad of twenties that sit slack and slowly unfolding on my slack, stunned palm, “take my truck.” He hands me his keys too and they fall to the porch railing. 

“I can’t,” I blurt, barely avoiding an incriminating ‘I don’t want to’. “I haven’t cooled Stormfly off, or un-tacked,” I look back at her bridle the only stitch of leather on her entirely cool body, “yeah, I have to untack her.” 

“I’ll do it,” Ruffnut practically vaults off of the porch, grabbing the reins from my dangling hand, “we haven’t hung out much lately, have we girl?” Ruffnut scratches Stormfly’s neck in just the right place and she stretches her head out, blissful. 

Betraying me entirely.

“Perfect.” Mr. Haddock stares at Hiccup like he wants to say something else but isn’t sure what before turning around and walking back inside. 

Hiccup clears his throat and stares at me, “that’s a word for it. I’ll drive, if you want.” 

“No, he gave me the keys,” I snatch them up, stuffing the money in my pocket, “I’ll grab the list.”

“I have that,” Hiccup pulls the entire pad from the fridge out of his pocket. 

“Why do you have that?”

“Are we going or am I hot-wiring the truck?” He rolls his eyes and I want to tell him that’s disrespectful too, but Ruffnut is staring at us with bright, nearly malicious eyes and I raise an eyebrow at her. 

“Aren’t you going to put Stormfly away?” 

“In a minute,” she shrugs.

“How about now.” 

“When did you get promoted?” She steps closer, close enough so that no one else can hear her taunting me, “oh right, when you married into the family—”

“Just go,” I hiss at her.

“You’re telling me about it later.” She whispers over her shoulder, nearly tripping as she looks back at me to waggle her eyebrows. 

I stalk past Hiccup without looking at him, unlocking the truck and climbing into the drivers’ seat. It would be easy to leave without him, and I think about it, because I don’t mind going into town by myself, Gobber always gives me a free ice cream cone and I can get raisin bran without anyone arguing about it. 

But Mr. Haddock asked me to.

And he could never ask for enough, after what he did for me. 

“So,” Hiccup announces as he climbs into the passenger seat, loud like he intends on domineering the next half hour of conversation, “apparently my father thinks you’re the good influence that’s going to expunge me of my evil, modern ways.” 

There was a rattlesnake, last fall, the last one I saw at the Hofferson Ranch, and it stared at me for a second, trying to decide whether it was going to bite me or not. And snakes aren’t known for being expressive, but there was something there, beneath those beady eyes, something trying to decide whether I was worth the fight. 

I am. Unanimously. And they will always regret it. 

“Funny, I think he’d need to call a priest.” 

“I’ll tell him you said that.” 

“Don’t,” I blurt, starting the truck and shifting it into gear. It doesn’t sound like a threat, like I wish it did, because it scares me more than I want it to. Because family means something and it doesn’t matter how hard I work, badmouthing Hiccup won’t help my case. 

Hiccup snorts, drumming his knuckles on the window, “figures.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s not supposed to mean anything. It means what it means. Words are obedient like that.” 

I grind my teeth, staring out at the county road, barely visible at the end of the driveway. 

It’d be like mud-wrestling a pig. He’d enjoy it and all I’d get is pummeled. The situation will do this for me. One day of actual work and he’ll fall apart. This is temporary. 

“Stumped you?” He smirks. 

My dad always said that if I couldn’t say anything nice I shouldn’t say anything at all. My mom and my uncle always said that was bullshit. 

“You know, when you’re smug I can really see the Jorgenson family resemblance.” 

He turns on the radio and winces when Luke Bryan pours out. He flicks to another station and it’s Sam Hunt, and he makes a childish gagging sound before turning it off entirely. 

“That’s all there is, isn’t it?” 

He sounds broken already.

I turn the radio back on, “I like this song.” 

“You would.” 

I almost want to hear what increasingly pretentious thing he’d say if I asked what he means by that, but that’s like giving Snotlout a window to talk about bullriding like it’s rocket science, so I keep my mouth shut.

A lot of trainers insist on running horses tired, but that doesn’t work for some of them. We had a filly once, smart and hyperactive and stubborn, and the only thing that worked was to make her stand still until she was willing to listen. She’d run all day if you let her, but if you just stopped and made her stand there for a while she’d get bored and frustrated and eventually work with you as long as she got to move.

Hiccup fidgets, taking his phone out of his pocket and tapping it with a frustrated fingertip. 

“No service.” He mumbles. 

I hum, turning onto the county road and driving parallel to Haddock property. The horse herd is peaceful against the fence, a few horses reaching their head through the barbed wire to reach the infinitely better grass on the other side. 

The mustang is still there, leaning on the fencepost, glossy and sweaty even from a distance and I look away, because I shouldn’t be sad about that. I should be practical. That horse means nothing to me in the face of what I have left. 

I shouldn’t care that a vet is coming tomorrow, with the promise of dealing with the situation if the horse isn’t better. 

“Wait.” Hiccup double takes over his shoulder, staring at the stupid mustang. 

“For what?” 

“One of the horses doesn’t look right.” 

“What do you know about horses?” I shift into a higher gear, pushing to speed five above the speed limit. 

“Next to nothing. But one of them doesn’t look right.” 

“Yeah,” I look at the horse in the rear view mirror, head drooped forward, exhausted by its own weight. “One of them doesn’t belong.”


	3. Chapter 3

Town isn’t so much an actual town as it is an actual general store with a big, ancient sign that says General Store a gas pump out front, a Denny’s in a Best Western parking lot, a post office combined with a vaguely ominous sounding “Best Trader’s Bank”, and a nameless bar with a Coors Light sign half lit in the front window. Not only is it not big enough for Astrid and me, it’s not big enough to earn a dot on the atlas map. If I had service, I’d check if it’s even worth a dot on Google Maps but my service is roaming with the buffalo, wherever they do that, I’m assuming it’s nearby. I’m sure that if Google could see me, Google would think I was going to show up in the news for surviving being lost in the Wyoming wilderness.

Or dying, you know, which seems more probable with the way Astrid is glowering at the list my dad gave her.

She’s very angry. I remember that from when we were seven. Or my scalp remembers because there’s a very primal throbbing on the back of my head like by second grade, she had the unique ability to target people where they’d died in a past life.

I don’t necessarily remember her looking like a very muddy and really hot but vicious attack lap dog of my father’s, but after half an hour in the truck while she unflinchingly blared country and refused to look at me, I think I’ve got her figured out. It’s not like there are very many personality types in Wyoming, and I think I can put her surprisingly dedicated irritation with me in the same corner as my dad’s deep and eternal disappointment. 

“You can wait in the truck.” Astrid’s offer is more like an order and I unbuckle my seatbelt the instant she parks the truck. 

“I’ve been in this truck all day, I need to stretch my legs,” I say it to make her uncomfortable, but she either doesn’t hear or doesn’t remember, because she doesn’t react except to glare at me that I interrupted her counting the money my dad gave her. “What? They don’t take Apple Pay?” 

“I really don’t need your help,” she double checks the list and tucks it into the grimy pocket of her shirt. The wrists are unbuttoned and it looks like she purposefully dragged them through filthy water, like some bastardization of hick tie-dye. 

“Fine, then I won’t help.” I get out of the truck and stretch my arms over my head, simultaneously overheated in the direct sun and chilled by the wind that cuts through my hoodie like Astrid’s glare. “Nice park job by the way.” I point out one of the behemoth’s tires on the crookedly painted line and she huffs at me before deciding against it, her nose pointedly in the air as she stalks off into the shop. 

The silent treatment, my old nemesis. 

One time my mom managed it for a day and a half and I thought I was going to pull my hair out, but that’s my mom. She knows me. Astrid can’t seem to be not furious for even a second so I doubt she’ll keep it up for long. 

A second gust of wind slams the door shut after me, ruffling a bulletin board full of flyers. Most of them are advertising things for sale, like a manual Craigslist, and a couple are alerting the few but lucky patrons to fire danger in the area. The biggest is a poster tacked down at all four corners, advertising the Berk County Rodeo as the oldest continuously running rodeo in Wyoming and promising prize money in a variety of events that I would guess all involve wrestling farm animals. And that just makes me remember that my dad’s plan is for grueling, back breaking farm labor to miraculously return me to the obedient son that I never even was. 

I thought last summer was bad because Mom refused to turn on the AC. This is going to be worse, so much worse. 

“Hiccup Haddock, is that you?” A familiar voice greets me and I look up from the bulletin board to see Gobber behind the counter, holding Astrid’s list with his metal hook hand. 

“Gobber?” I laugh, forgetting at least some of how miserable I am to be here. My dad looked the same but Gobber looks older, his moustache gray in the middle and blond where it hangs to his chin. 

“Is that a question, laddie?” He laughs, waving me over, and Astrid steps out of the way with an expression like she just bit into a lemon on a dare. “Stoick said he was picking you up today but I didn’t figure he’d let you out of his sight so soon.” 

“Let? More like ordered me away before that vein in his forehead finally exploded.” I shake Gobber’s hand and he pulls me halfway across the counter to thump me on the back with his hook. “And now you’re bludgeoning me, ouch,” I’m grinning when I get my feet back on the floor, “I see it was a long con to get rid of me.” 

“Don’t think we’d let you off that easy,” he crosses his arms, “expelled, eh?” 

“There it is,” I sigh, and Gobber’s heavy look gives no room for me to try and talk my way out of this judgement. “In my defense–”

“This should be interesting,” Astrid mumbles under her breath, rolling her eyes and reading a candy wrapper like it’s deeply interesting. 

Maybe it is, to her. I don’t think they let her off the farm much, maybe she doesn’t know that some food comes pre-killed and pre-packaged for everyone who doesn’t horse wrestle to get their morning pep. 

“Whatever the reason, I’m glad to see you.” He starts stacking items from Astrid’s list on the counter, “a summer of work will do you some good, you look like the wind is going to clean carry you away.” 

“Thanks,” I scoff, swallowing against that all too familiar feeling of fitting in only because I stand out.

It’s different with Gobber though because the reason I’m a token something is different, he’s cutting right to the core of Berk’s problems with me with one swipe of his hook. And given the lack of diversity in Wyoming personality, candy selection, and everything else, I can just apply his salt to the wound I didn’t think my dad could open back up. But he’s stubborn and look at this, I’ve been here an hour and gotten through one rousing fight and suddenly, I kind of care what he thinks of me. 

Gobber heads into the back room, humming happily, and given that this is the closest I’m going to get to civilization for a while, it’s probably my best chance to get an SOS out. Dear Heather, enemy doctrine has reminded me that societally, I’m supposed to want my dad to love me, please send reinforcements.

“Is there cell service anywhere around here?” I ask Astrid and she looks up pointedly slowly from her absolutely gripping candy wrapper research. 

“We have an amplifier at the ranch but Mr. Haddock keeps it off, usually.” 

“Oh, that’s useful for the underage hostage labor situation he has going on.” 

Her nostrils flare like she’s about to charge me or something and I make sure I’m not wearing my red shirt.

“Ruffnut claims she can check Facebook from the corner by the ice machine,” she points past the two aisles of food and small selection of clothes that look like they were personally plucked by Gobber out of the LL Bean sad grandpa collection. 

“I’ll try that then.” I take out my phone and slip a pack of gum into my pocket when she isn’t looking, already re-committed to ignoring me. “Don’t worry, not calling the union–”

“You really shouldn’t talk about your dad that way,” she snaps, dropping the candy on the floor and clenching a fist on the counter. “The rest of us want to be here. I want to be here.” 

I don’t quite know why, but that makes me think of that horse I noticed on the way over here. I don’t know why it stood out to me but I think it had something to do with the way it was standing, sulky but still defiant, like it knew it had lost didn’t see any reason to acknowledge it. Astrid said it didn’t belong and maybe it should take that as a compliment. 

“You do seem deeply happy and fulfilled.” I head back towards the ice machine, holding my phone over my head and looking for a trace of signal. It flickers but holds and I open up my messages. The screen stays blank, unable to load the rest of Heather and my conversation and I’m glad I grabbed the gum, because the secret in my pocket keeps my face blank even as another tether to who I knew I was yesterday wears thinner in the onslaught. 

Hiccup (11:13am): Day 1 in enemy territory, lack of muscle definition has been noticed and noted. I fear this will make me unattractive to the cows and my cover will be blown  
Hiccup (11:13am): how’s my mom holding up?

“That’s the last of it and I’ve got the feed on order, someone should be delivering tomorrow,” Gobber hefts a box onto the counter and Astrid pays from her stack of bills. 

“Thanks for doing that research for me, by the way, I hate going cheaper–”

“Don’t worry about that now,” Gobber says almost gently, “Stoick will turn it around, he always does. This time’s no different, you’ll see.”

“Turn what around?” I check my phone to make sure I stay in signal range even as I try to insert myself back into their cryptic conversation.

“None of your business.” Astrid picks up the box like she’s worried she’ll hit me if she doesn’t have something to occupy her hands. 

“Well, it sounds like it has something to do with the Haddock Ranch, which technically–”

“Are you done irritating whoever you’re texting?” She gestures at the door with her chin, wordlessly ordering me to open it for her. “Because unlike you, I actually have some work to do.” 

I move slowly and Gobber groans at me, annoyed but nice enough about it that I almost feel bad about the gum in my pocket. Or maybe I do feel bad, I always feel a little bit bad, but it’s not an exercise in morality as much as impulsivity and reminding myself that no one is watching. A little invisibility is practically armor when Astrid’s glaring at me like that. 

“I thought everyone’s whole point was to put me to work?” I finally get to the door and lean on it a second too long before pushing it open. The wind fights me and I let it. 

“I don’t know how useful you’ll be,” Astrid gets sick of waiting and shoulders past me, kicking the door fully open with a muddy boot and calling back at Gobber. “See you later!” 

“Yeah Gobber, I’ll see you,” I wave at him and his unimpressed face reminds me of my mom’s. 

“If you’d like to do that before your own funeral, maybe go a little easy on Astrid.” 

“Right, because she’s going so easy on me.” I watch her load the box into the backseat of the truck and climb impatiently into the driver’s side, tapping on her watch at me. 

“She’s had a rough few months,” he sighs, “and so has your father. Maybe lead with a little less…”

“You just gestured to all of me,” I flinch when Astrid honks, and taps her watch again. “Alright! I’m coming! Bye Gobber, enjoy my wake, chances of open casket aren’t looking good.” 

“Oh Hiccup,” he sighs as the wind slams the door shut again and I get into the truck. I’m barely seated let alone buckled in when Astrid pulls out, slamming it into gear and punching the gas. 

“You know, unbuckled passengers become projectiles in accidents.” 

“I’m not going to hit anything.” She sighs and rubs her forehead, leaving a smear of dirt across it, like it somehow sprouts endlessly from her hands. “At least not right now.” 

“That leaves me confident.”

She doesn’t respond to that aside from turning on the radio and going back to her stare straight ahead and glare routine while attempting to humanely lobotomize me with some song about cut offs in a truck in a field in a beer can in the military. 

Halfway up the long driveway to the ranch, I find myself looking for the horse I noticed earlier. The rest of the herd is still in the field they were last time, but that lone black horse is missing. Maybe it found somewhere it would rather be and I kind of hope it’s a good omen towards my chances of finding a reliable cell signal. 

But, as with school security system updates, hope doesn’t usually go my way. 

“Shit!” Astrid yelps, slamming on the brakes as a staggering black blur runs in front of us right at the corner of the fence. The truck squeals, tires sending a wave of gravel at the twins, who are running after the horse. Ruffnut flips her off and my dad barks something I can’t quite make out but it gets her running again. 

“I thought you weren’t going to hit anything.” I goad Astrid, using the physical force of her glare to convince my hands to let go of the seat. 

“Loose horse, don’t just sit there,” she yanks the keys out and runs after everyone, grabbing a rope from a hook on the fence. 

“I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do, but…ok.” 

The horse runs behind the house and I take a few steps towards the other side, more avoiding the action than actively seeking out the horse. I am curious though, I did recognize it. It’s limping even as it leads everyone on a scattered chase and I catch a flash of red on its back leg when it dodges around my dad, kicking out at him and stumbling to catch himself. 

Astrid’s probably going to lecture it about disrespect. 

I didn’t grab the gum to chew it, but the dust the chase is kicking up is making my mouth feel dry so I pull out a piece, edging a little closer to the commotion. 

The horse catches my eye and pauses, neck arched, eyes wide enough to see the whites of them even from thirty feet away. It kicks at Astrid when she tries to grab it with the rope before fixing its attention on me again and staggering to the side. I can see its hurt leg more clearly now and it makes my own knee twinge sympathetically. 

“Hiccup,” my dad gestures from where he’s standing, arms spread wide to block entrance to the barn. “Get out of its way.” 

“I thought we were trying to catch it,” I take a step towards it, possessed by the same pull I feel towards knick knacks and unguarded teacher’s keys. 

It blinks at me and nods violent and fast, letting out a shrill sound that’s more scream than anything before running straight at me. 

“Hiccup!” My dad yells again. 

Maybe my life isn’t flashing before my eyes because I never really had one. 

Or maybe it’s because for some reason I can’t explain, the horse stops three feet ahead of me, nodding again and pawing the ground with one front foot. Its knee shakes. My knee shakes. I hold out my hand and it breathes a gust of warm, damp breath over my palm, nostrils flaring to show vague pink insides. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I mutter, clearing my throat when my voice feels lost in it. “Something already did that.” 

“Hiccup,” Astrid tosses me the rope she’s holding and it hits me in the side. The horse startles, rearing back on its hind legs and lashing out at her before stumbling, barely catching itself on that quaking back knee. 

“Don’t scare it!” I step between them, arms held out like I’m the one protecting the raging thousand pound animal. Maybe I am. I don’t know.

“Put the rope around its neck,” she orders, which I think is just a base state for her, but I’m not sure what else to do so I listen, picking up the coil with surprisingly steady fingers and examining it. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” I tell the horse, because country music made me go clinically insane this quickly, “this is a lasso, I think, I don’t know. There’s a loop.” I glance back at Astrid and she’s scowling at me, giving so much helpful advice. “I think that’s the part I catch you with. I’m just going to…put it over your head even though you keep trying to kill everyone else here.” 

The horse nods again, chewing with its big, hand crushing teeth, and blowing more air over my hands. 

I have to go onto my toes to get the rope all the way over its ears and I stumble slightly on the gravel. It’s a reflex to reach out and catch myself and I don’t realize what I’ve done until I see my pale hand on its gleaming black shoulder. 

My life doesn’t flash before my eyes. 

The horse stands stock still except for that trembling back leg shaking in time with my heartbeat. 

“Hiccup,” my dad calls again, “let Astrid take him–”

“I’ve got him,” I regrip the rope, taking a step backwards, sure that the horse will follow. It does, one mincing step on unsure legs. “There we go, that’s good.” My left heel drags slightly in the gravel as I take another step back and the horse follows. 

“Take him into the barn,” my dad sounds confused more than anything and he steps out of the way as the horse and I make slow backwards progress. One of the stalls inside the barn is open but the horse pauses at its entrance, pawing with its front foot again. 

“Come on, bud, you’re close. So close. I see that knee shaking, I bet you’re tired from making all these people chase you around.” I reach out and set my hand on its nose and it nods again, grunting deep in its chest between hoarse, distinctly scared breaths, “I’m tired from watching you make these people chase you around.” 

It takes a trembling step over the threshold and the other three feet follow more easily. 

“Take the rope off,” Astrid is watching from the big sliding barn door, eyes sharp and irritated. Curious. 

I think it’s the first time all day I’ve agreed with her. I’m also curious as to what the fuck just happened. 

“I’m just going to get this off of you,” I loosen the rope and pull it back over his head, “and I’m going to step out of here and close this door.” 

It tries to follow when I step backwards but doesn’t argue when I close the door and slide the brass latch into place. 

“What the hell?” My dad shakes his head, looking at me like I’m as alien as I feel here. 

I laugh, “watch your language, Dad, impressionable ears are everywhere.” 

“Inside. Now.” He points towards the ranch house and I’m too rattled to try and argue with that level of authoritative tone so I listen, knees wobbling as I walk past everyone. I’m not sure how to describe how they’re staring at me, but it’s new. As new as the urge to turn around and go back into that barn, like something is unfinished.


End file.
